Death's Way (A John Santana Novel)

She lay naked on her side across a king-sized bed, a clear plastic bag wrapped tightly over her head. Her mouth was open in a desperate search for oxygen, her face the purplish color of a bruise. A long cherry charmeuse scarf was tied around her waist. The hooks of a red bungee cord bound around her waist were attached to the hooks of a second strap that stretched up her back, around her neck, and down to the waist strap again. A dildo protruded from her vagina. Her bladder and sphincter had released, and the room smelled strongly of urine and feces.

Santana was breathing through his mouth as he stood on the opposite side of the bed from Reiko Tanabe, the Ramsey County medical examiner. He watched as she leaned over and peered at the woman’s eyes through a magnifying glass. Behind Tanabe a pair of large windows offered a view of the High Bridge and the Mississippi River, lit by the rising sun, that the dead woman would never see again.

“There’s petechial hemorrhaging,” Tanabe said, referring to the tiny capillaries that had ruptured from increased pressure on the veins in the head when the airway was obstructed, causing blood to leak into the eyes.

She straightened up, adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, and looked at Santana. “The lower elastic strap served as a stabilizer for the upper strap. The controlled flexion of the head and the body caused pressure on the neck. In most of the cases I’ve seen, the mechanical device used to induce hypoxia normally has protective padding between the neck and the ligature.”

“To prevent visible abrasions or bruises on the neck?”

Tanabe nodded. “Abrasions might arouse the suspicion of friends and family members. There’s no padding present here. Still, I can’t say that the lack of padding indicates a homicide.”

“Pulling off the bag was the self-rescue device.”

She nodded again. “The decrease in blood and oxygen supply to the brain supposedly enhances the experience. She assumed she could pull off the bag to control the degree of hypoxia. But she lost control the moment she lost consciousness. The ligature continued to compress and obstruct the carotid arteries.”

“So she unintentionally killed herself twice,” Santana said. “Once by suffocation from the plastic bag over her head and second by strangulation with the neck ligature.”

“Looks like it. When death occurs from autoerotic asphyxia, it’s almost always due to the failure of a fail-safe strategy. I’ll know more this afternoon when I cut her.”

Considering the lack of a suicide note in the room, the victim’s position on the bed facing the television, the porno- graphic movies that had been playing when she was found, the dildo, and the locked room that provided isolation, the woman’s death appeared accidental. Still, Santana always considered strangulation homicide until proven otherwise.

“Any estimate as to time of death, Reiko?”

Tanabe thought about it. “The room was only fifty-five degrees when we got here, John, so her body temperature was very low. The air-conditioner cooled the body and slowed the rigor. It’s difficult to estimate TOD. I’ll check the stomach and small intestines.”

If the dead woman had been murdered, Santana wondered if the perp had deliberately turned down the room temperature to confuse the ME. The room was a spacious, private suite with a king-sized bed, two couches and a coffee table, a wet bar and desk, and two armoires with large flat-screen televisions. Dark, gray-black images of latent fingerprints dotted the surfaces.

Tony Novak, the head of the SPPD’s forensic lab, was kneeling beside the desk, the round bald spot on the crown of his head shining brightly under the ceiling lights. A painter’s mask covered his gray mustache and guarded against the odor and intake of black carbon powder on the fiberglass duster in his hand. Large white letters written across the chest of his maroon-colored T-shirt read: LET’S ASSUME I’M RIGHT, IT’LL SAVE TIME.

Santana gloved up and searched the black purse on the bar. A driver’s license identified the dead woman as Catalina Díaz. She was twenty-two years old and had a St. Paul address. He found no keys and no cell phone in her purse, which immediately piqued his curiosity. Everyone carries keys to his or her house and car. And nearly everyone has a cell phone.

He felt certain that whoever had been with Díaz had taken her phone and had probably destroyed it. He wanted to know whom she’d been in contact with and where she might have been in the last few days. Real time cell tracking, e-mail, or text messages sent within the last six months, and the physical search and seizure of a phone, required a warrant and probable cause. But he had no idea what cell phone service Díaz had used.

He did find a small envelope inside the purse. The envelope contained five one hundred dollar bills and a business card for a Dr. Philip Campbell. A Minneapolis address was listed under his name. A phone number was written in ink on the back of the card. Santana suspected it was either Campbell’s cell or home number.

Inside a small suitcase on a luggage rack near a closet he found a black lace bra, garter belt, and chemise. A black lace tank dress hung on a hanger in the closet over a pair of black high heels. Santana knew what Díaz had been doing in the hotel room now, and he figured she hadn’t been doing it alone.

“John.”

He turned toward the exterior door and saw his partner, Kacie Hawkins, in the hallway outside the room. Standing beside Hawkins was a stocky, big-shouldered, balding man in a blue suit and tie. Santana peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them in a container brought to the scene by the forensic techs. As he headed toward the stocky man, Santana noted the nameplate identifying him as Dwayne Stryker, hotel security.

“Haven’t seen a body in more than five years,” Stryker said with a lazy grin. He spoke slowly, the lids of his brown eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled with a cop air of habitual disbelief.

“Where’d you work?”

“Chicago,” he said. “Homicide. Did my twenty and took a job with the hotel chain. Thought I’d be done with this.” He gestured toward the body on the bed. “We’ve interviewed the guests on this floor. No one heard or saw anything.”

“Anyone staying in the connecting room?”

He shook his head. “No one across the hall either.”

 

“Anything going on at the hotel yesterday?”

“A conference for the Twin Cities Medical Society.”

“We’ll need the names of everyone who stayed here last night and anyone who attended the conference, including a man named Philip Campbell.”

Stryker nodded. “My staff is working on it.”

Hawkins gave Santana a questioning look.

He shook his head, indicating he wanted her to wait for an answer. Then he turned his attention to Stryker again. “How long was Ms. Díaz staying?”

“One night.”

 

“Had she stayed here before?”

“I’ll see.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Santana’s gaze was momentarily drawn to the exterior door leading into the hallway. It had a push-button lock and another lock operated by a key card. He’d already checked the dead bolt leading to the adjoining room, which had been locked.

He looked at Stryker again. “Who would have access to the room besides Ms. Díaz?”

“Housekeeping.”

“What about maintenance?”

“Of course.”

“The housekeeper who discovered the body is waiting in another room, John,” Hawkins said. She shifted her eyes to Stryker. “We need to contact whoever was working in maintenance last night.”

 

“I’ll find out.”

 

“And check your central computer as well,” Santana said. “Let Detective Hawkins know when Díaz used her key card to enter the room.”

Santana knew that all hotel locks had a memory that recorded the time, date, and key code for every entry. In the event of a problem, the security staff could read and print the log to see who had entered the room at what time.

“What about security cameras?” he asked.

“Only in the main lobby and pool area.”

Santana handed Stryker a business card. “We’ll need those security tapes. If you remember anything else you think might be helpful, please give me a call. Detective Hawkins will follow up with you regarding the maintenance man, the tapes, and Philip Campbell in a minute.”

“All right,” Stryker said. His gaze drifted to the body in the room before settling on the business card in his hand. He looked at the card a moment longer and then at Santana, as if he were about to say something. Then he appeared to change his mind. He turned and headed toward a set of elevators at the far end of the hallway, still holding the card in his big hand.

Leaving Homicide was like leaving a woman you loved, Santana thought. You never truly forget her.

When Stryker was out of earshot, Santana said to Hawkins, “I found Dr. Philip Campbell’s business card in Díaz’s purse.”

“Boyfriend?”

“I think he was her client.”

Hawkins cocked her head. “Díaz was a hooker?”

“Or escort.”

“One and the same.”

Santana was surprised by the hard edge in her voice.

“Appears that Díaz—or someone she was with—was into BDSM,” Hawkins said, referring to bondage, discipline and sadomasochism. “Campbell could’ve gotten carried away.”

“Possibly.”

“Maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d seen her.”

“Probably not. But if he accidentally killed her or deliberately murdered her, Kacie, why leave his business card in her purse?”

“Maybe he gave it to her on a previous occasion.”

“True. But if I’d killed her, I would’ve checked her purse before leaving the room.”

“That’s why you’re the detective,” she said with a smile. “And why you’d probably make a good murderer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. But I didn’t find any keys or a cell phone in Díaz’s purse. An escort whose livelihood depended on keeping appointments would have a cell. And who doesn’t have a set of keys? Someone checked her purse.”

“But if it was Campbell, he would’ve taken his business card.”

“Unless he was incredibly careless.”

“Why take her keys?”

“Maybe to gain access to her residence. Check with the manager regarding the conference and Campbell. And check Díaz’s hotel registration. See if she drove a car and left it in the ramp. If so, have it towed to the impound lot.”

“What about the bungee cords and silk scarf?”

“I’ll run a check on them. The cords are probably sold all over town. But I might get a lead on who purchased the silk scarf. Where’s the housekeeper?”

“She’s in the second room on your left.”

A short, dark-skinned woman with large frightened eyes and small hands clasped tightly together in her lap was hunched in a cushioned desk chair in the room Hawkins had indicated. She was looking around like a little bird checking for predators.

The plastic nametag clipped to her coffee-colored house- keeping uniform identified her as Lorena Gonzales.

Santana pulled up a small rectangular hassock and sat down across from her. He wanted to establish a connection and ease her anxiety. Figuring she was fluent in Spanish, like so many of the housekeeping staff in the hotels around the city, he spoke in her native language.

“No te preocupes. No estas en problemas.”

She drew herself up in the chair, her brown eyes shining with light. Though she bobbed her head as if she understood that she was in no trouble, her lips remained a thin, tight thread.

“Where are you from?” he asked, continuing to speak in Spanish.

“Guatemala.”

“I am from Colombia.”

A hesitant smile brightened her face.

Santana took out his notebook and pen. “How long have you worked at the hotel?”

“Three years.”

“Have you always worked the morning shift?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me what you saw when you entered the room and found the dead woman this morning.”

Her voice grew stronger the longer she spoke in her native language. Nothing she’d observed upon entering Díaz’s room contradicted Santana’s initial observation. The housekeeper had seen no one entering or leaving the room. He wrote a short summary of the interview in his notebook. But he had one more question before he was finished. He wanted to know if the housekeeper had ever seen Díaz in the hotel before discovering her body this morning.

She looked down at her hands the second he asked the question. When she failed to respond, Santana figured he was on the right track.

“You have seen her here before.”

She lifted her head slowly and nodded.

“Did you know her name?”

“No.”

“It was Catalina Díaz.”

Her eyes looked up and to the right for a second, as if she were recalling something. “She would speak to me in Spanish.”

“What would she say?”

“Just a greeting or a wish that I would have a good day. She was nice.”

“Did you hesitate when I asked if you had seen her before because of what went on in the room?”

Gonzales nodded again.

“How did you know?”

She averted her eyes. “There are many young women who use the hotel for this business. Sometimes I see different men entering the same room.”

Not wanting to embarrass the housekeeper further, Santana asked for no more details. “Do you think you could identify any of these men if you were shown a photograph?”

“Perhaps.”

“Did Ms. Díaz usually stay one night?”

She nodded. “Many of the young women only stay one night or two. No more.”

Santana finished writing in his notebook and gave her a business card. “Please call me, Ms. Gonzales, if you remember anything else.”

She nodded again, stood up quickly, and hurried out of the room. Santana had seen the same reaction with many he interviewed. He’d gotten used to it. Usually it wasn’t personal. Most drivers had the same reaction when they saw a patrol car behind or beside them. Cops called it black-and-white fever.

As Santana walked into the hallway, two attendants from the ME’s office were wheeling a gurney and black plastic body bag containing Catalina Díaz out of her hotel room. Exiting the room directly behind the gurney was Pete Romano, the homicide commander. Santana was surprised to see him. The previous commander, Rita Gamboni, had rarely come to a crime scene unless it was a very high-profile case. Gamboni had recently accepted a job as commander of the department’s Safe Streets Initiative and its liaison to the FBI. Romano, the SPPD’s most senior homicide detective, had been promoted to fill her position.

“Detective,” Romano said with a nod.

“What brings you here, Pete?” Santana asked. He’d known Romano long enough that he felt comfortable using Romano’s first name rather than the more formal “Commander.”

“I like to see the actual crime scene. It helps me fill in the blanks when I read through the reports. It might help expedite the whole case.”

Santana wasn’t sure what the rush was. In his experience, the more brass present at a crime scene, the more likely boundaries would be crossed, conflicting orders would be given, and something important would be overlooked. For those reasons, he preferred to work his own crime scenes with Hawkins. Although she was younger and less experienced, he trusted her judgment and respected her skills. They’d been together long enough to understand their roles and responsibilities—and who was in charge of the crime scene.

“We don’t know if it’s a homicide yet, Pete.”

“Hopefully, it isn’t.” His olive skin wrinkled in the corners of his dark eyes as he smiled.

Santana noted that Romano had cut his jet black-hair shorter since becoming commander, but he hadn’t lost any of his burgeoning belly. Detectives in the department had called him “Cheese” when he was one of them. Santana was unsure if the name would stick now that Romano had assumed an administrative role. It probably would depend on how Romano conducted himself and how effective he was—at least that was how Santana saw it.

He’d never partnered with Romano. But he’d heard from those who had that Romano operated strictly by the book. His unwillingness to bend or break the rules had served him well when the time came for the big promotion. Under Gamboni’s leadership, the department had maintained an extremely high clearance rate. Santana suspected that Romano was here to make certain the rate remained high while he waited for his next promotion.

Seconds of uncomfortable silence lingered before Romano attempted to engage Santana in conversation again. “Looks like an accidental death.”

Santana had already drawn an initial conclusion, but he had no intention of sharing it with Romano until he had evidence to support it. But he was well aware that no other type of case generated the amount of public interest and media scrutiny as murder, particularly if it involved sex.

At that moment, Hawkins returned. She gave Romano a nod before turning her gaze on Santana. “Catalina Díaz used the hotel two weeks ago, probably for the same purpose. I’m having her car towed to the impound lot. According to the key card log, she entered her room at nine thirty-two last night and never left. Philip Campbell checked out at six this morning.”

“Why Campbell?” Romano asked, looking at Santana. “Are you suggesting the woman was murdered?”

“It’s too early to tell.”

After some thought, Romano said, “Budgets are tight.”

“Meaning?”

“Let’s clear this up as quickly as possible, Detective. I don’t have money for overtime. Oh, and

I’ll handle the media.” Not waiting for Santana’s reply, Romano headed for the exit sign.

“What’s Cheese doing here, John?” Hawkins asked when Romano was out of earshot.

“You heard him. Budgets are tight. He wants this wrapped up soon.”

“That explanation sucks.”

“It does,” Santana said. “And I’m not buying it.”